Put the Darkness from Your Thinking
by Canne
Summary: Her body is cold next to his in the bed when he wakes. Where there should be warmth, there is none. Where there should be movement, there is stillness. Pre-series fic.


**Title:** put the darkness from your thinking  
**Word Count:** 979  
**Summary:** "Her body is cold next to his in the bed when he wakes. Where there should be warmth, there is none. Where there should be movement, there is stillness."  
**Author's Notes:** Originally written for the Treat Much Right ficathon.

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Her body is cold next to his in the bed when he wakes. Where there should be warmth, there is none. Where there should be movement, there is stillness.

Much lays there, stunned, for several moments. On his other side, his siblings slumber peaceful, their three blond heads lying neatly in a row along the pillow. It is only because of them that he moves. It wouldn't do for them to wake up and find mother like this.

She had been sick for as long as he could remember. Since before Martin's birth, for certes, and that was five years ago. But her illness had been a fact of life in their house. Just as certain as the sun rising or father coming home each night smelling of ale and women, mother's coughs and chills were normal. It was such a part of their daily lives, such a common matter-of-fact that he never thought she would actually succumb to it. Never thought to wake up next to her lifeless body.

He climbs over her body and, almost automatically, goes to the fire. Long ago, he had learned how to stoke the fire. Mother never got out of bed before the fire was going and it was always his job to start it. His hands shake as he prods the ashes of yesterday's blaze, trying to find heat, life, in the grey remains. It is there, faint, but glowing, and he blows and waves and works over the embers, encouraging new flames, a new fire. Within minutes, there is a warm blaze and Much takes a moment, a very brief moment, to warm his hands before moving away, back to the corner that houses the family bed.

Her skin is grey and she looks…she looks so unlike his mother that he almost dares hope that it isn't her. That someone else had come into the bed last night and mother is merely fetching water, or tending to the family's few chickens. But, of course, it is mother, only a mother who is prettier than he has ever seen her, her frown lines vanished, her lips drawn into a faint smile.

She is gone to a better place. The village priest's words echo in Much's head. That is what the old man had told him last spring, when Martha had died. Martha and he had always shared everything. They had shared a womb, then a crib, then their toys, and always, always all their ailments. But they hadn't shared the same fate. Now Martha lies under a small white cross in the churchyard while Much stands here, over another body soon to rest in the chapel's shadow.

His mother was not a big woman, scarcely larger than Much himself, and she is easy to move. He lifts her out of the bed and half-carries, half-drags her out of the one-room cottage, onto the chair that rests outside their door. He props the body there, arranging the limbs carefully, making sure she'll stay up, that she won't flop around alarmingly. It isn't very dignified, but at least the others won't have the same unpleasant surprise as he when they wake up later.

Then, calmly, he goes inside, lifts the heavy metal pot from its place next to the fire, and heads out to the well. He fills it up quickly, quietly, ignoring, as always, the teasing village girls whom he passes on his route. This, at least, is normal: the heavy weight of the pot, the slosh of water against his legs as he struggles to carry it back to the house. This is like every other day of his life, at least until he comes back to the cottage and sees her propped up in that chair. He hurries quickly inside. Eventually, he will have to find the priest, and then his father, but for now, for now all he must worry about is feeding his siblings. The dead are still dead, but the living must eat. His father's words come back to him now, words dealt out harshly in the days after Martha's burial, when Much had refused to eat, hoping instead to join his sister.

Back in the cottage, he carefully measures out enough oats to feed the four of them and adds them very, very slowly to the heating water. It wouldn't do to spill them, not today. Father hates waste and even today, Much knows, his large, lurching father will not hesitate to use his fists if he thinks Much has squandered any of the family foodstuffs. He finishes pouring without a single spilt oat. Mother would be proud, he thinks, as he stirs his concoction.

"What are you doing Much?" Martin asks sleepily, sitting up in the bed and rubbing his eyes vigorously.

"I'm making us porridge."

"Where's Mother, why isn't she making it? You don't know how to make it right."

"Yes I do. I'll make it, and you'll like it, just you see." Much retorts. Martin sticks his tongue out at him, but then lies back down again, curling against his sister's back for warmth.

"Don't eat it all without us." Much hears him mutter, before he falls silent once more and the only sounds in the room are the crackling of the fire and the bubbling of the porridge. Much finally lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and reaches on his tip toes for the squat round honey jar. He lifts the dipper thoughtfully, watching the golden syrup run slowly down the stick, falling back to the jar. The honey is the same colour as her mother's hair, as Martha's hair too.

He drizzles the honey liberally into the porridge. He will make it sweet. The others will like that, it will make them happy. He needs to make them happy now, especially this morning, before he tells them.


End file.
